


Clean

by ElleoftheBall



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt, F/F, F/M, Post-Break Up, Regret
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27012919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElleoftheBall/pseuds/ElleoftheBall
Summary: The Joker is fine. Got that? Fine! So, Little Miss Harley-girl has had enough, has she? So, she isn't coming back this time? The love well's gone dry, has it? Well, the Clown Prince could care less! He's fine. Peachy keen, and perfectly clean! Free of the disease - that was love.
Relationships: Joker (DCU) & Harleen Quinzel, Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley & Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Kudos: 12





	1. Prologue

White. A weightless, lukewarm snow is filling the room. Filling his eyes. His throat. The spaces in between his skull. Here there is a constant hum.

A hymn.

The buzzing, monotonous whine of a church bell.

There is no God here.

_Cheap digs._

A truly revolting heaven.

A parody of one, really.

No, the only deity present is himself. And, The God of Chaos has learned to find the humming comfortable. Calming. A welcome distraction from the itchy uniform. From the drugs that dulled his brilliant mind to such an extent that the walls no longer spun.

Their sharp edges couldn't entertain, anymore. 'Didn't twist like the gears of a carnival ride. No more _weee!_ No, no - the snow had taken over. An ugly, real-life television static. Burying the faces of his friends on the ceiling, stopping the ride just as it picked up.

Sedatives. Shoved down his throat by a burly gorilla. _'Name tag said Lyle._ Four or five capsules. Sliding down his throat. Swimming in his stomach. Choking the laughter.

There was no laughter, anymore.

Only the hum.

Somewhere beyond the blurry, his brain drudges up the memory of a banal little weasel man in a three-piece brown suit, who stunk of self-importance. Who gave him a lame little half-formed smirk, and snatched away his lipstick -

and pealed the laughter from his throat,

and dulled the goddamn fireworks show -

into nothing but colorless white.

 _A 'real shame. Would've been pretty._ _Batsy would've gotten a 'real kick out of -_

Weasel Man would've enjoyed -

A metronome - the steady ticking of footsteps leading to his door. He turns his eyes toward the source, toward the steps following the path, toward the door.

Ugly door. A bent metal one, all rusted over. Painted mint. Mechanical mint; a forest of manufactured white. _We're all mad here_ \- the thought comes, lifting an instant disgust with it - _too Jervis Tetch._

"Hey, Doc Quinzel?" An intrusive, slurring voice interrupts the hum; the door opens with an awful half-dead squeal.

His jaw tightens.

"Hey, Doc - they tell ya he ain't eatin'? Fuckin' clown hasn't had anythin' to eat in at least uhh-" The silence indicates that he's raised several meaty fingers up to his face, trying to decide on a stopping point. _Counting's hard, isn't it, Lyle? All those numbers!_

He opens his eyes; her face becomes clear through the haze.

Shiny flaxen hair is pushed behind her left ear.

Glasses are adjusted.

"I'm aware, Lyle. Thank you." There's a false honey in her curt tone; the idiot doesn't hear the lie.

"'Welcome, Doc." He says, a grin curling along his piggish cheeks. "It's just that if the guy up and _dies_ we -"

She raises an eyebrow, silencing him: "Lyle?"

"Yeah?"

"You would do well to refrain from insulting my patient, _and_ discussing the prospect of death - as I'm sure you're aware - it can be _quite_ upsetting. We wouldn't want another incident with HR, would we?"

"Uhh - no, ma'am - um, Doc -!"

" _Doctor Quinzel._ " She responds, shooting the oaf a smile that stretches wide across her heart-shaped face, avoiding her eyes completely.

A confused grunt follows; the door slams shut.

His humming returns, a melodic familiarity to accompany the good doctor's next words: "Over-paid, _ass_ -monkey." A laugh lands at the center his throat, begging to be set free.

An honest-to-apeshit laugh.

At someone else's humor.

She was fairly entertaining.

"Doc." He says. He's surprised at the gravel in his own voice; he's equally surprised - and horrified - at the docile expression slinking its way across his face.

There's a warm, disgusting pulse in the center of his chest. The writhing of a fat, white leach squatting at the base of his skull. _Soft. Easy to squash._ And, the good doctor looks at him - an ugly little mutt, tucked away in a basket beneath the Christmas tree - like that. _Like a puppy dog._

The worm.

The disease.

It's there: making itself known, squealing like a pig.

Gluttonous bastard.

Eating away at his selfhood, pumping oxytocin into his brain.

The brain of a God. No, better - a force! The unstoppable force. Designed for greater things than idiotic notions.

The worm hits the jukebox. A song plays from '72: _And, they called it puppy - lo-puppy-lo-_

_Bastard! I need to crush it!_

"Hi, Mr. J." She says. Her eyes - powder blue, violent blue - search his face with that same saccharine expression. She fishes out her notepad. "How are you?"

 _Real pretty eyes, Doc._ He glances at his hands - saturated starlight. The outline of each of his fingers. The tips of his thumbs. Pressed behind those pretty eyes. Scraping at the back of her skull.

The leach protests. Speaking in gnarled tongues, whispering filth into his ear. Beautiful eyes.

"Hi, Harley. I'm - I'm very _high_ , Harley!" While he intends to laugh, the words leave his mouth in a grumble. His tongue's heavy with saliva - dosing his trademark showmanship. Raining on his goddamn parade. A performer without a stage; a mouth that was melting, leaking. Eyes that were leaking, too.

Her smile is gone in a flash. Those baby blues have gone teary. He watches her throat bob.

 _Slender neck._ He imagines wrapping his hands around it. Leaving pretty purple marks. Squeezing until there's a snap.

The bug reprimands him. The pills have made him goofy, and the leach is in control.

"Oh. Oh, no!" she says, gaze sweeping over his face with increasing sadness, worry, rage. "Damn it, of all the - these _bastards_ pumped you full'ah meds again, didn't they? And, they wonder why you ain't eatin'!"

A laugh nudges the edge of his lips. The calm and professional tautness in her voice is dropped to the linoleum floor, revealing a gutsy little girl from Bensonhurst. As it so-often did.

When Harley got angry, the mask crumbled.

Her voice rose several octaves higher than he thought the good doctor capable, at first. A voice like nails on a chalkboard.

The leach is charmed.

"Over-medicating _my_ patient! Makin' him eight shits to the wind! Wonderin' why he won't eat the slop you're serving!" The rant is directed at no one in particular. Her voice softens; her eyes settle on his. A sweet and somber tone: "I'm _sorry_ , Mistah J."

"-S'lright, my dear." He says, drawing his hands up, flexing his fingers beneath the hum, watching the starlight burst into oblivion. "What's on the agenda - today, Harl? Ink blots? Word games? More stories about my dear old - Dad?"

"No." she says, a knowing smile on her lips. "And, no stories about ya stint with Mistah 'Stitches' DeNetto - or, some silly accident with battery acid - or, about ya time in an orphanage in rural Kansas that -" The little thing giggles, snorting into her hand. "doubled as a sweatshop makin' golf balls."

A wide, goofy grin overtakes his face; he struggles to sit up, engage with his audience: "That one! Would you believe they actually _bought_ it?"

"Morons." she agrees, "Anywho, no psychobabble, not today. I doubt we'd make any real progress. You're much too doped up, thanks to my _esteemed_ colleagues." She reaches into her purse, pulling out a pudding cup and genuine silver cutlery. "I figured you'd have a problem handling solids. And, we need to get _some_ food in you."

She taps the lid twice with her spoon, as much cheer as she can muster. "Think you can manage?" she asks, holding the cup out to him. It's miles away; his head spins.

"Can't." He says, raising his shoulders. "Guess I go hungry, Harl."

"Not on my watch." She tugs off the foil in seconds, filling the spoon, and holding a bounty up to his lips. "C'mon." she urges, tapping his mouth gently. "Here comes the train."

The tip of the spoon grazes his pallet. His mouth widens on instinct, siring a deep, burning agony along the side of his jaw. She notices.

A sympathetic coo leaves her throat, a worrisome expression. She tugs the spoon out. "Your face." says Harley, delicately tracing the battered muscle with the tips of her fingers.

"Lyle ..." he groans. It had been his own fault, really. Lyle couldn't understand the punchline. Big words confused the poor man.

"Of course, Lyle." she spits, "It's a wondah they haven't _sacked_ the imbecile by now."

There was that accent, again. It sent the leach, purring, and squealing, and whispering grotesque nonsense.

She glances at the spoon, brow furrowing. "The metal's too hard ..." Harley mutters, cupping her chin, a wicked idea lighting her face after a few moments. "Open your mouth." she says, suddenly. "Wide as ya can. This'll be a little gross but," She lifts the spoon to her own mouth, and holds the custard in place. "Trus' me."

He watches her. Confused, but shamefully obedient, his mouth looms opened just as she asked. A line of drool rolls down his chin, collecting on the cot below him. Before he can comprehend her plan, Harley leans toward him - lovely face inches from his, cheeks stuffed with custard - and spits.

His mouth floods with the pudding kept warm by her mouth, made thin from her saliva. He should be utterly repulsed. His stomach should lurch in protest. He should strangle her, slap her, shout at her - something.

Before he can act, an intense emptiness floods him. The sudden realization of how hungry he is. The God of Chaos is reminded that a three-day cocktail of happy, sleepy, and dopey pills does not a balanced diet make. Like a good boy, he resigns to swallow.

The leach approves.

"There, isn't that better?"

It was: "Thank you, Doctor."

Harley's beaming. "A few more bites." she says, "Want anymore?"

He nods. The process repeats.

"You know what I like about you, Harley?"

"What's that?" she asks, emptying another mouthful into his. A splotch of pudding clings to his lower lip. She wipes at it gently with the pad of her thumb, and licks the excess off. "The puddin'?"

"No." The word leaves his mouth in a dry rasp, on the heels of a slight smile. "I like - I like -" His body is doing things he hadn't instructed, hands reaching for her face as she sits in her chair: calm, and sweet, and caring for him. And, not the least bit intimidated.

She ought to be.

The fear wove cracks into her features that first day. It was nice, and he sort of missed it.

 _She isn't afraid of you._ The thought comes; delivered by the worm - or, by the Bat - or, maybe they were in cahoots. He laughs at the notion, and to his horror, it's a light laugh. The kind reserved for ordinary guys and two-bit comedies.

Harley sits, unassuming, in her chair. Even as his hand traces the prettiness, and plucks at her cheeks. A finger curls around her hair. Two knuckles feel the warm, wet inside of her mouth, thumb poised straight up.

Pretty thing stares down the barrel of a gun. The violating hand of a near perfect stranger in her goddamn mouth - for fuck's sake! Yet, she doesn't flinch.

The dame must have guts. Or, a great deal of trust. Or, maybe she was just too damn silly. Some nutty mix of all three.

_She's infected you!A little.Much too much.Cut her out.Stuff the body parts in pickle jars; label her "Medical Waste."Lop off an arm!Chop off her head if you have to!Pull yourself together, man!_

"Mistah J?" The hand is placed back into his lap; her accent is thicker this time. There's a subtle little squirm in her seat. His hand wants to draw again. That beautiful Valentine's slope of her face. "The thing ya like about me?"

"I s'ppose you're very _nice_ , Harley." he says, simply. The words cough, and sputter, leaving his mouth in a slow, up-tilted whine. "I like having you around."

To his horror, that was true.

The leach won.

Eventually, he would kill it.


	2. Chapter 2

All of his dreams are an unbroken fever. Vague little impressions. Stains on the edge of his glorious mind. Demons making faces on saturated film. He's drenched in cold sweat.

A strange, uninvited sadness coils in his stomach.

Harley traces the scar between his shoulder blades. A real nasty one, by all accounts. Her touch falls at the downward slope of a batwing. Her hand is warm.

Harley mumbles honeyed words. Words that are sweet, and serene, and sublime – to make the badness go away. To make her Puddin' smile. Rain is angry on the roof, firing the tin like gunshot.

_What was that dream? – Oh, what was it?_

There were probably black capes. Black capes, and bruises, and Batman. And, _before._

"You're okay, Puddin'" She whispers, trailing kisses down the base of his spine. "You're okay. It's all gone now. I'm here."

There's a deep agony where her lips land: a moaning pull rooted to his bones. Her kisses are light. Butterfly feet.

Her mouth licks his skin. Coos at him. Laughs.

It doesn't soothe the pain, it exacerbates it. Outlines it in scarlet red. Pokes the proverbial bear.

Though ... while he fights the urge to smack her ... the pesky bug in his brain likes the effort.

"It's all alright, now Puddin' I'm here."

"Poo ..." He says, trailing off, "Poo-bear, I think – I think I had a bad dream."

#

There's pain in his back is still tormenting him. The rain is still hitting the roof.

The TV is still on. Flickering at the far end of the room, broadcasting Animal Crackers.

But she isn't here.

Chico's Italian accent: spaghetti slop in a can – heavy, and hoaky, and sour to today's sensibilities – is a poor and pitiful lullaby. But it is funny.

She laughs from somewhere. Somewhere in his brain. The sound reverberates in his skull. Like church bells. The stinging in his spine racks its way down. He taught her to appreciate the classics.

The _ingrate._

His toes curl through moth-bitten sheets, looking for warmth. Stretching toward an empty space. _Cold._

She's not sleeping next to him. The ingrate's warming _Pammie's_ flowerbed now, isn't she? Tending to her bush – or pruning her dogwood – trailing kisses down _her_ back instead.

He thought of Harley's skin. Soft, and clean, and smelling of peaches. So, easily torn off. And, filled with some other dame: another sweet, blonde, dumb little harlot to play with – until he got bored.

The ingrate didn't _leave_ him, of course.

He'd just gotten tired of her.

She would be easy to replace. He'd make five more just like her.

He'd driven her into Pammie's rose garden – with a smile. With good tidings – _good riddance!_ Let her prune, and preen, and stroke the dogwood. Hell, he knew she had one.

Yet – _no._ No. That wasn't how it was supposed to be. In recent memory, his dealings with Pam were always amicable.

And, when they weren't, they were hilarious.

Still –

They'd always abided by an unspoken set of rules, a sort of social contract.

The Oversexed Head of Lettuce went and voided it.

 _Weekends and holidays, Pammie,_ he thought bitterly, _That_ _was the deal._


End file.
